


Piss ‘n’ Earth

by wreathed



Series: Officer Class [6]
Category: British Comedy RPF, Nathan Barley (TV) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Choking, Come Shot, Forest Sex, M/M, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sadism, Vacation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 11:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19829140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreathed/pseuds/wreathed
Summary: The last days of summer, 2019. Hidden deep in the woods like tree roots.





	Piss ‘n’ Earth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trash_bat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash_bat/gifts).



Only after twenty years of knowing him does Charlie find out that Chris owns a cottage in North Wales gained a long time ago through an eccentric gift of inheritance: a solitary property far away from any other signs of life, nestled between dark knots of ancient forest and far away enough from Snowdon to avoid holidaymakers. Chris has never mentioned it to him before, and has only mentioned it now because he has deemed it to be relevant. He’s deemed it relevant, along with the related description of privacy and seclusion, because he’s asked Charlie to join him there for the weekend. No further details are given, but that’s more than enough for Charlie’s heart to start racing as he agrees to it.

Charlie has met enough comfortably well-off people in the media by now to anticipate second and third properties as unexceptionable assumptions of which ownership is mentioned only when the subject has been raised, especially if they are in a location that does not denote significant value. It is never as if these houses have ever had something as gauche as being purchased done to them, Charlie reflects when amidst well-dressed laughter and clinking glasses, rather that they simply happen to be in their possession in a morally neutral matter of fact.

He realises with a nagging feeling that he has enough money now to buy several places of his own if he wanted to, but the thought had never seriously occurred to him before. It doesn’t seem like a practical course of action. One house was hard work enough.

Charlie can’t drive himself there, of course, and Chris, who had looked both charmed and irritated to be reminded of this, had offered to get him there as long as they meet up for the journey outside of London. Which is how Charlie ends up getting an Uber to Beaconsfield Services off the M40 like a fucking serial killer. Chris picks Charlie up after ten minutes of his nervous toe-tapping at the edge of the car park, in a baseball cap and sunglasses and scrolling through emails on his phone. He answers one message from Annabel and ignores everything else, including Annabel’s seventeen other messages.

Early nineties gangsta rap blares from Chris’s car as he pulls up like he’s a twenty-two-year-old joyrider out of time. The music stops just before the car does – an aging Volkswagen, possibly still running on diesel or something, but it’s not like Charlie knows enough about cars to be sure.

“Afternoon,” Charlie grunts after opening the door as if he’s hungover (he’s not), now checking Twitter as he gets into the passenger seat. 

“Turn that off,” Chris says sharply, already starting the car up again. Charlie feels caught off-guard. He had wanted, but not expected, Chris to act happy to see him, although he’s aware he himself is hardly being polite. He’d thought they might be past all that by now, anyway. There had never been many niceties, and it doesn’t seem the time to start now.

Charlie looks up from his phone. Chris is so tall that his seat is pushed right back to get his knees away from the steering wheel, so Charlie has to crane his neck to look right at him. Without a ready response, Charlie looks down to Chris’s left hand, tense and wrapped around the gearstick, his thick wrist extended out from the end of the sleeve of the striped rugby shirt he’s wearing. Something inside Charlie gives a sick leap.

Chris had asked; Charlie had improbably cleared his schedule. Chris hadn’t _specifically_ said he’s taking Charlie away for anything sexual at all, so it would be wrong to be presumptively hopeful, but Charlie has been very careful not to get recognised and it’s not out of a desire to avoid any resurgence of _Barley_ series two rumours.

Chris is looking at him sternly and expectedly, frustrated at being kept waiting for an answer.

“What, keep it off all weekend?” Charlie asks following a long enough silence to practically make it a non-sequitur, going to take off his sunglasses just to give his hands something innocent to do.

“There’s no signal once we’re there anyway,” Chris shrugs like he’s being perfectly reasonable. “Trust me. Too many hills,” and they drive off.

Charlie turns off his phone, his mouth going dry. He does do it, that’s the thing. He is knowingly letting himself being taken into the fucking _wilderness_ without _contemporary communication technology_ because he’s that pathetically hopeful.

The rest of the journey is a pleasant catch-up, during which Charlie occasionally manages to successfully supress some of his dizzying thoughts about Chris’s hands tightly clenching around things and the muscles in his wrists. They swap details on Chris’s film’s distribution and the next _Black Mirror_ series, then fill each other in on their circle of mutual friends as they speed through the motorway around Birmingham and then watch the roads they’re taking get progressively smaller. Chris leaves Charlie to nap between Shrewsbury and Llan-y-something-or-other, by which time he jerks awake to see the sun setting prettily behind some hedgerows. 

“Sorry,” Charlie mutters. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” 

“Don’t worry,” Chris says, eyes on the road. There’s something about these country lanes that worry Charlie. Chris seemed like he would have the tendency to reverse with confident speed into passing places. “You’ll need your energy.”

That’s enough to make Charlie’s whole face flush. The hope in his chest hammers into something more certain as he discretely rearranges himself in his jeans, knowing Chris will likely still notice.

For the rest of the journey, he imagines Chris reaching over and pressing his palm over Charlie’s crotch as they speed along, giving him a cursory something to rub up against as Charlie exclaims his fears that they’re going to crash into oncoming traffic. In reality, nothing; Chris is leaving him to wait.

*

If hearing about it second-hand from anyone else he knows, he would determine the first part of the evening romantic. Chris has packed food from a farmers’ market in numerous cool bags and tells Charlie to wait in the front room while he rustles up something. Surprised by his not being needed but happy to be catered to, Charlie dumps his bag in the hall, sits down in the cosy lounge and waits. And waits. It feels like the longest he hasn’t done anything for about a decade.

At one point, he tries turning on the television – a widescreen CRT, one of those massive grey plastic things you needed at least two people to help shift to avoid breaking your back – but it’s not connected to anything that’s receiving live transmission and so Charlie turns it off again. He wishes he’d brought something decent to read; it wasn’t the time or the place to be alone with his thoughts. He’d naively thought there wouldn’t be much free time. Eventually he goes back out to his bag, grabs a pen and paper and starts writing ( _[Shotgun house… retro tech but futuristic capabilities?]_ ), the official reason for him being here. Not many words in, Chris calls him through to a wooden trestle table in the kitchen on which is served a skilled and hearty – of course – coq au vin in a large, shallow dish in the centre of the table and an uncorked bottle of Chianti.

“Wow,” Charlie says, feeling like he’s standing in too-small shoes. “Looks good.”

Chris just smiles enigmatically as they sit down, then indicates the bottle of wine. Charlie pours – he does know how to pour and drink wine, thanks very much, he’s not a completely uncultured idiot – but everything is nevertheless heightened in this particular situation and he still feels nervous, with Chris’s hot gaze on him, that he might spill it or get something hilariously wrong.

He presumes the food is mostly for Chris’s benefit. He would be bemused if Chris had thought he’d have to try and impress Charlie. Charlie would be ecstatic with a petrol station sandwich and a diet coke then cutting straight to spreading his legs apart on the front room’s cosiest sofa and watching himself get fucked in the blank slate reflection of the television.

Somewhere here, upstairs, he realises with a dumb jolt, there must be beds, a bed, but he hasn’t been told how that arrangement might be configured, nor invited up to look.

“You can do the cooking tomorrow,” Chris says, light-heartedly threatening, and Charlie laughs but he also feels, yes, a nervous uncertainty. He can’t do anything like this. He can do some serviceable out-of-date basics; what he learned under duress when he was younger. Sure, he had heard from the others in the upstairs room of the John Snow about Chris’s dinner parties, about his impressive and garlic-laden culinary talents even at the kind of precocious age when everyone else was surviving on takeaways and packet noodles, but he hasn’t experienced it himself. He’s never been invited to Chris’s London home, and he could take several good guesses as to the reasons why.

He finishes eating, despite his nervous-anticipatory stomach, and tells Chris the food was delicious, which it was, and Chris thanks him sincerely.

Still no sex yet, Charlie thinks as he finishes his glass of wine. He can feel Chris’s eyes on his swallowing throat. Okay, fine. He can deal with that. He’s approaching fifty; he’s not some slavering animal. Really – even though they haven’t seen each other for months? Chris has been in America a lot. So has Charlie, to a certain extent, but they had never managed to be in the same city at the same time.

He’s being treated with care. It’s disconcerting. Would Chris really be an addition to the long list of people who think he's mellowed?

Charlie’s tipsy and impatient enough now to not care in the slightest if Chris notices: Charlie stares at Chris’s open collar and the lines of his collarbone, the weight to his hands when he gesticulates as he talks. Charlie blinks slowly as his awareness of his own breathing drifts in and out around his swirling, desperate thoughts. 

Then Chris leans forward over the table and Charlie just about clocks what’s happening in time for his heart to leap happily in his chest. Chris kisses him, tongue soft but insistent and deep in his mouth, and they taste the same as each other because they’ve drunk the same wine. Chris’s hands stay by his sides and Charlie finds his hands are wedged in between his thighs. Charlie’s immediately gone for it, he notes with some self-consternation; a quiet embarrassing moan escapes his mouth and he feels himself start to get hard even though it’s only their mouths that are touching. Chris slides his tongue against Charlie’s one more time, then pulls back. Charlie’s about to steel himself to ask Chris out loud about the bed and/or beds situation, when—

When, maddeningly, despite the time being past midnight and hot blood starting to fill out the crotch of Charlie’s jeans, Chris bouncily announces that he’d like to go out for a walk.

*

It’s so dark here, with no artificial light to aid them except Chris’s battery-powered torch, and the ambient quiet is only upset by a gentle breeze through the leaves of the trees, the sounds of wildlife (Charlie is determinedly suppressing all possible thoughts he could have about spiders) and twigs that snap under their feet. For Charlie, who by choice is never more than half a mile from a corner shop and some method of public transportation, it’s fairly terrifying.

Chris, well-used rucksack slung over one shoulder, is telling him about the animals here that only come out at night: owls; bats; badgers that have not been culled despite the best lobbying attempts of the agricultural industry.

“Where the fuck are we going?” Charlie asks. “Not that this isn’t picturesque, of course. Is this when you finally murder me in cold blood?”

“It’s only ten minutes’ walk back from here,” Chris sighs at Charlie’s lack of intrepidness. “We’d go out to the woods to smoke at school,” he continues. “I never got caught doing it.”

“What about your friends?” Charlie asks darkly, but Chris doesn’t answer that. Charlie pants in surprise, the back of his head smarting, as he finds himself winded from the force with which Chris has shoved him against the trunk of a thick, straight tree.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Charlie breathes because Chris has finally got his hands on him. “I was going mad.”

Chris’s only response, his face lit only on one side by the torch he’s holding, is to look at Charlie as if he likes him that way.

Then the torch is switched off and thrown to the floor, and then it’s very dark indeed. Charlie breathes in, out, keenly aware of the vulnerability that runs through this situation like the sick thrill running down his spine when Chris slams into him like that, leaning in close enough for Charlie to feel the ends of Chris’s curly hair against his neck.

The sound of the zip of Chris’s rucksack – Charlie’s eyes are open, but he can’t really see much from this distance; somewhere above them, the moon hangs in the sky – and then the coarse scratch of rope is at Charlie’s wrists.

Chris fingers are briefly on and then away from the skin on Charlie’s inner wrists as he ties knots, serious proper knots, not pretend ones Charlie can break, and tightening the feeling somewhere in the region of Charlie’s kidneys is the thought of not being able to get away. It’s not even like he wants to, even if he probably should. 

“You never instigate,” Chris says thoughtfully, as he sharply yanks Charlie’s arms up by the rope that’s tying his wrists together, forcing a grunt to unfurl from Charlie’s mouth, and he ties… Is he tying Charlie to the _tree_? “You wait for the offer to be made. Although you remain preternaturally impatient.”

Charlie’s rate of breathing has elevated wildly, and he tries to focus on Chris’s deep, even voice to calm down. “If I ask, you’ll say no to fuck with my head,” he says. Despite his various misgivings about the setting, he has Chris’s undivided attention and he can feel he’s obscenely hard in his jeans. He can smell moss and wild grass. It feels heartbeat-elevatingly dirty, to be brought out here: Chris has orchestrated this whole weekend, it seems, so he can carry out whatever he’s got planned. It’s so premeditated, and he finds that’s thrilling.

“Don’t think I missed how you were looking at me,” Chris is saying. “Even when I treat you like any other one of my friends, it’s not what you want. You want this.”

“You too,” Charlie returns, feeling desperate for something else to happen, even now, because of course this is not enough. 

Chris’s response is to pull the fastened rope tight and kick Charlie’s legs apart with one boot, hard, Charlie’s trainers sliding across the earth and dry leaves. It makes Charlie make a noise he wish hadn’t been so embarrassingly loud.

It smells so fresh and clean here and yet he still badly wants Chris to hurt him some more. He imagines what the give of the slightly damp ground under his knees would feel like.

Chris’s hands are all over him, still in the dark: tight around his wrists, then grabbing at his chest, his rapid heartbeat briefly under Chris’s palm, and then grasping Charlie’s hips. All it coaxes from him is further incoherence. He can’t move his own hands and he can’t see anything more than half a foot away, so all he can really do is listen to the sounds around them – Chris’s breathing and the harsh sounds of his own – and feel Chris’s broad hands over his polo shirt and back across the rubbed-rough delicate skin of his wrists.

They were more likely to be overheard in Soho than out here, and the well-worn fantasy he’d held of being taken down to street level and outside by Chris while looking freshly fucked had, understandably, never come to fruition. Here they’re alone, and yet _someone_ , quite theoretically, could overhear them, and yet he feels too far gone to even try and be quiet. 

Still so keen for more, Charlie squirms under Chris’s possessive touch, then swings his hips forward, trying to rub his dick against any part of Chris he can reach even though the movement makes the rope chafe. Chris kicks him in the shins so he’s back against the tree in no time, and Charlie grimaces at the pain.

“Isn’t it clear to you,” Chris says, close to his ear, “that I want you to stay still?” and Charlie breathes out _yes_ just as Chris bunches up the fabric at the neckline of Charlie’s polo shirt in each of his hands and rips down the fabric, one of his hot palms then moving against the sweaty skin of Charlie’s chest, one of his fingernails digging hard into Charlie’s nipple. 

“You can’t just – I _liked_ that shirt,” Charlie says dumbly as he looks down at it, even though he’s unfussed by clothes at the best of times, but it had lasted him a good few years and he hardly relishes the idea of having to go through the rigmarole of having to replace it. He’s glad they’re in the dark because he wouldn’t like to think about what he looks like now. Despite what he’s just said, the shock and strength and sheer presumption of the action has made his cock leak in his underwear, and Chris, he realises with a fearful sway of his insides, is going to find that out.

Chris rips the shirt the rest of the way in half, and then Chris’s hands are all over his torso and Charlie feels his hips move forwards of their own accord. 

Chris’s hands leave him and he seems to disappear and what Charlie feels then is sheer terror. “Chris?” he calls out, to no immediate response. Oh god, the cunt; he’s can’t see, he’s going to be mauled by a rabid badger and found by a scandalised rambler in the morning. “Are you still there?”

When he feels another length of rope loop around his waist he wails out in relief and he hears, he thinks, Chris laugh unkindly from behind him. Now he can move even less, is stuck in a more fixed position held up by his stupid legs and aching wrists.

“You weren’t listening to me,” Chris says. “Stay still.”

Charlie doesn’t even say please, in that moment. There’s no decision to be made, nothing he can do that will affect future events. It’s bizarrely comforting, like knowing with a cosmic certainty that he definitely turned the hob off before leaving the house.

He jumps when Chris’s face is back in front of his again. Both of Chris’s hands slam firmly into Charlie’s shoulders so that the curve of his back straightens and hits the tree, hard enough to possibly bruise. Much to his shame, after that is when Chris’s hand at last goes for the hot bulge in Charlie’s jeans and squeezes Charlie over his clothes, making Charlie give a now-aborted roll of his hips. Deftly, Chris unfastens his jeans and closes his hand back over him, this time over his damp underwear. He’s quite sweaty for a half-naked man outdoors in the middle of the night, but sweat’s not the reason for the sodden slickness there.

“You like this,” Chris says. “Don’t forget it.”

“Unlikely to, aren’t I,” Charlie says bites out, sardonic as he can manage, and that’s when Chris squeezes him hard enough for Charlie’s knees to try to buckle until they’re stopped by the fixed point of his hand. His mouth grapples with another cry of pleasurable pain, and he wonders how long it will be before Chris gets a hand on his cock properly.

Up pops the filthy, hopeful image of Chris twisting him around and slamming his front against the tree, pulling down his waistband and fucking into him without any warm-up or warning. He feels another surge of excitement at the thought of it. He’s never found anything else that like it, and it only happens on relatively rare occasions: how deep Chris gets, how full he feels, how he feels sore from it the next morning. Chris gives his cock one last rough, careful fondle before pulling away and Charlie gasps and says _fuck me_ before he can stop himself. It just slips out. Chris looks affronted.

“I’m not in any rush,” Chris says, hands now over Charlie’s jeans again ( _damn it_ ), this time groping at the top of his spread inner thighs. “We’ve got all night. All of tomorrow night, as well. I’d rather leave it until then. So I can put the lights on and see all the marks I’ve given you. So you’ll be sitting down in the car all the way home the next day.”

“Please,” says Charlie. Thoughts whirl in his head of being here for _all night_ and what that might mean: of being left hard for hours, of Chris feeding him while his hands stay tied, of the sun beginning to rise and forcing him to confront his appearance, hair dirty from sweat and their surroundings, clothes torn, a large wet patch at his underwear.

“I don't want you to look good,” Chris tells him softly. “I don't need you to feel good. I want you to look like this is where you belong.”

Chris goes for his own trousers then, undoing them under the hem of his rugby shirt, and Charlie squints through the darkness, desperate to see. The shape Chris is holding in his hand is not big enough for him to be entirely hard, Charlie realises, and that’s when Chris meets his eye and huffs out a cruel sound with a curl of his lip as there’s a shock of hot liquid against Charlie’s stomach that runs down to his opened jeans and underwear. The smell quickly overwhelms the scent of fresh earth. Charlie shuts his eyes and realises with an unbidden thought that makes his dick pulse that there’s nowhere to quickly send him away to for him to get clean. He’s going to stay dirty like this until they're done.

He slumps back against the tree, rough against his back, and hears his own excited throaty moans as if someone else is making them.

He opens his eyes. Chris is on the other side of the tree again, undoing the rope chafing around his middle and letting it fall to the floor, then the rope tying his bound wrists above his head, before moving to stand facing Charlie again. Charlie brings his hands down, wincing at the ache in his shoulders, but they’re still bound together and so he almost stumbles. His head swims giddily.

“Get on your knees,” Chris says, and Charlie moans but doesn’t move. His body aches all over.

“ _Now_ ,” Chris says, seemingly losing patience, and gets a large hand on Charlie’s shoulder blade and pushes down _hard_. Charlie falls with a surprised gasp, first to his knees and then further forward, losing his balance so he’s flat against the ground. He briefly enjoys the pressure against his neglected cock, trapped between the ground and his prone body, before Chris’s boot meets the fleshy side of his torso and he takes in a big gulp of air and he pushes himself back up onto his knees with his bound-together fists. Chris is standing in front of him, tall, and looking down at him now, Charlie recognises by now even in the dark, with what is Chris’s version of fond, obsessive interest.

“Good,” Chris says, and shoves his cock in Charlie’s mouth.

Charlie chokes from the sudden intrusion, from the size and the lingering tang of piss, spit bubbling in his mouth, and feels the endorphins slide joyously through his brain and around the points of pain in his body. He slurps and takes it in more actively. Chris had been mostly hard when he’d gone in, but he was certainly entirely there by now. There was fucking and then there was _this_ , which Charlie sometimes thinks he misses even more – the entitlement Chris has over his mouth.

He can do this now. He can take practically all of it in. They've practiced.

He can’t help it, the terrible sound of pleasure he voices that is soon cut off, when Chris slides his dick in past the tight rim of Charlie's throat and wraps his hand firmly around Charlie’s neck. Charlie splutters again, his brain starting to white out around the edges. For one mad moment he thinks he might come just from this, from the waiting and the slight pressure still afforded by his underwear and his mouth crammed full and the feeling of Chris’s grip straining around his neck. Then Chris releases him, briefly pulls out long enough for Charlie to desperately gasp in a wheezy, high-pitched breath like he’s had to run for the bus back when he had a sixty-a-day habit, before shoving back in and tracing one of his broad fingers against Charlie's neck around the bulge of his cock _inside Charlie’s throat_.

 _Yes_ , goes Charlie’s terrible internal monologue with considerable glee. Chris, mouth parted, looks taken with the visceral fact of the distension of it. _Yes yes yes._

He moans at the loss when Chris pulls his cock out again, but then Chris is grasping his erection in his right hand and pulling forward in long strokes right over Charlie’s face and so he moans once more, giddy, eyes open even when Chris gets his left hand around Charlie’s throat again, making his face hot and his eyes start to water and breathing getting harder and harder until Chris lets go and comes copiously over Charlie’s face before he directs himself lower and the rest of his come joins the wet mess on Charlie’s stomach and chest. Chris’s legs waver, Charlie notices, but he doesn’t sit down.

“Could leave you here,” Chris says after a few moments of quiet. “It’d be clear to them what you're useful for,” and Charlie croaks out a helpless sound at the thought of being found in this state by a shocked passer-by.

“No, come on,” Charlie wheezes – his voice is cracked and wrecked coming out of his used throat. “Chris.” He’s holding the doublethink in his head: that surely Chris wouldn’t, not really, but wondering if he would do all the same.

“I could get you off now,” Chris says, eyes half-lidded in the dimness. “If you can't wait. But if you come back with me now, in this state," Chris says, thoughtfully slipping his thumb into Charlie's damp mouth for a moment. "There’s a chance you’ll get my mouth. For just a little while longer. It's a very reasonable offer. But it's your choice.”

If there was ever a time to feel humiliated, Charlie thinks, it would be now: soaked, dirty and in ripped clothes, blinking through come that's going to cake on his jaw, pushed to his limits of hard and aching, as obedient as he could ever manage being but nevertheless denied a timely reward that he does not have to make an active decision about.

Chris bends over the ground to grab the torch and turns it back on. It's too bright for Charlie's eyes. He doesn't want to look at himself, but he can make out the mud on his knees.

It's not a proper choice. He feels the capacity expand yet again within him to follow Chris anywhere, however wild, to wait for longer than he has to because he trusts that the wait will be worth it and because Chris, after all this time, remains someone he wants to impress.

He breathes, wobbles, and offers his wrists up for Chris to pull him upright with his free hand.

When he's up, Chris holds the torch in the crook of his arm and goes to untie Charlie's hands.

“Don’t,” Charlie says very quietly, ashamed. “Not yet.”

Chris gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze. “I’ll lead the way,” he says, torch back in his hand and rucksack back on his shoulder, taking the end of the rope trailing from the binding and tugging until Charlie trots after him. If they were normal people, Charlie thinks, they'd be holding hands.


End file.
